


Keep On Fighting

by forevertheworst



Series: I'm Coming With You [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Band Fic, M/M, Prisoner Shiro (Voltron), Singer Shiro, Timeline What Timeline, because duh, drummer Matt, prisoner matt, prisoner sam holt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 14:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14936300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forevertheworst/pseuds/forevertheworst
Summary: After being captured by the Galra, Shiro, Matt, and Sam attempt to learn more about their new surroundings while relearning their roles in each other's lives.This fits into the dumb ass series I'm building, but it can be read as a one-shot.





	Keep On Fighting

Being a prisoner was not supposed to be _fun_.

And, well, it wasn’t.

The first few weeks had been full of worry and panic as the three men rotated between belief and disbelief in the existence of aliens. While the Holt family was always firm in their belief of extraterrestrial life, Matt and Sam had never truly expected to come face-to-face with such life. Any sort of wonder that would having accompanied this accomplishment was destroyed as the men learned more about the Galra.

Like, for example, that name. When first picked up, the earthlings could not understand anything the captors said, but after an undetermined period of unconsciousness, the men awoke to perfect understanding. Matt and Sam spent hours examining each other’s ears and throats to determine if any physical changes could be seen, but everything seemed the same.

(Shiro was resolute in his refusal of letting either man near his anatomy. While he wouldn’t have necessarily minded _Sam_ prodding and poking him, the idea of Matt getting up close and personal left him squirming, and since he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing, he knew that he would have to refuse both. Allowing Sam, but not Matt, to study him would shatter the fragile peace that had settled between them since their capture.)

Their sudden fluency remained a mystery, even as the men were individually taken from the room and returned multiple times, each returning with a story of a new alien race they’d encountered during the Galra’s study period. No matter the physical differences, each new species was intelligible to the men.

Matt and Sam were steadfast in cataloging the individual species, each coming back with an extensive list of details. After his first return was met with disappointment at his failure to describe _exactly_ how sticky the tentacles were of the species he’d met, Shiro began to pay closer attention, not only to appease the Holts, but also to determine whether any of the encounters might introduce them to a potential ally. It was this mentality that allowed Shiro to discover the pattern of why each man was meeting different species.

“So yeah, these Taujeerians are essentially just giant green sumo wrestlers. I’m not sure how aggressive they are, but they’d be great to have,” Shiro paused, “in…a…fight.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he trailed off, and it took a few moments to realize that both Holts were staring at him.

“They’re trying to catalog us based on physical attributes,” he murmured.

Two pairs of eyes widened as they took in the implication.

“How,” Matt shouted, “in the ever-loving FUCK did we miss that?!”

The rest of the night was spent comparing each species to the human who interacted with it, and the men determined that Sam’s gray hair, Matt’s freckles, and Shiro’s size were the main factors for the Galra when studying the men.

Of course, just as they entered this stage of their research, seeking any way that might allow them to escape or at least contact their loved ones on Earth, the Galra shook things up.

It _seemed_ like the Galra had finally deemed the three humans weak enough to avoid being threats.

This meant leaving the nightly solitary confinement of their individual cells, empty rooms the men had been regularly separated into after their few hours together every afternoon during the Galra’s research, and entering GenPop.

(“Matt, this isn’t a prison drama. ‘GenPop’ is not a phrase that normal people use.”)

The tension-filled friendship that Matt and Shiro had maintained, both during the flight to Kerberos and the daily “social hours” granted to them by the Galra, immediately disintegrated under the thought of nightly sharing a bed once more. Sam discreetly excused himself to the room’s opposite corner as, without hesitation, the two younger men began to nest together each night after their reunion. It seemed that the various species they had been placed with understood romantic relationships, at least to some extent, because they too avoided the young earthlings.

Being captured with Shiro, Matt decided, made imprisonment infinitely better, and being captured with a Shiro who had decided he was okay with rekindling their relationship made it just a bit more _fun_.

Being in such a large room, with such a large number of alien strangers, guaranteed that the two kept their interactions PG, but Matt frequently found himself laughing— _laughing_ —at one of Shiro’s observations, and the two would often hold hands as they were enlightened to the ways of the universe, learning about their fellow prisoners—peaceful folk impacted by an unknown grudge that had lasted multiple millennia and sparked the Galra’s rampage.

If Matt ever doubted his love for Shiro, that doubt was readily dismissed when Matt admitted that intergalactic imprisonment was bearable as long as their fingers remained intertwined. _Fuck,_ he was a sappy asshole.

It was only a few days before Shiro was caught humming quietly, and the species whose vocal chords were incapable of fluctuation were awed once Matt convinced him to sing.

The human men quickly realized that the modern pop punk songs they’d written as a band were not hits in space, either. Rather, the aliens appreciated the _classics_. Specifically, Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love” and Queen’s “We Are the Champions” never failed to make the other prisoners smile. The first, Matt knew, shined a light on the intimate relationship he and Shiro shared, but the aliens seemed to appreciate a good ballad, and Matt was a just as much a sap as the rest of them. When Shiro would whisper the lyrics in his ear on random nights, he felt his limbs turn to jelly, glad they were already horizontal. The latter song, though—well…

Freddie Mercury was a god, obviously, and no one on Earth would dispute that, but god damn, did aliens love him, too. Matt and Sam could actually help with the Queen songs, too, because of the importance of drums and bass. For most of the band’s catalog, the instruments didn’t simply keep time; they _created_ the songs.

It was praise to Shiro’s voice that he could carry the first verse of “We Are the Champions”—one of the few Queen songs that didn’t begin with a rhythm instrument. Matt reveled in finding aliens whose voices could handle the notes for the chorus, and the tune quickly became the favorite of the prisoners (more so for its simplicity than its lyrics; none of them really felt like _champions_ while locked in a jail).

After a full week of domestic bliss, Matt had fool-heartedly assumed the kumbaya moment in space would last infinitely.  However, the moment the Galra ship docked at some unknown port, the other prisoners became restless.

That night, no one requested an Earth song. None of the aliens with flexible vocal chords dared warble “I’ve paid my dues,” perhaps in acknowledgement of what was happening.

The problem, of course, was that the Earth men had no clue of what was happening. Once Sam finally realized they’d have to ask directly to receive an answer, that answer was simply “prisoner drop.”

The seven hours the ship spent on the planet were tense, and the prisoners spoke few words, leaving the earthlings to assume the worst as the aliens began to huddle into smaller groups. For once, Sam ignored the rekindled relationship between Shiro and his son to wrap them both up in his arms, aware that things were about to change.

Being on-board the ship for so long meant that many prisoners were well-acquainted with the sounds of the engines returning to full power. Eyes widened in hope as the eldest of the groups explained that planetary visits often meant that prisoners would be traded, left on the planet to battle in the many Galra arenas established to assert dominance. The scariest part, one elder mentioned, was that none of the prisoners knew the host planet until prison guards came in the cells to choose prisoners.

For, of course, prisoners were selected based on the home planet’s race. What better way to dash hopes and dreams than to face the planet’s race against the all-mighty Galra and their warriors?

The process was sickening, but it seemed to be one that could be avoided for the day. Not a single guard had entered the main cell that day, and the engines firing implied that none of the prisoners would be leaving their makeshift community that day.

Until the heavy metal door clanged open, the sound echoing louder than it had any other day.

Two broad-shouldered Galra soldiers entered, flanking the door, as a commanding officer entered, his eyes scanning the prisoners quickly and precisely. As his sights landed on an older male, whose purple skin made his light blonde hair stand out all the more, Matt’s grip on Shiro’s hand tightened, and his skin paled as he turned to look at his father.

In light of the new information shared with them, it seemed immediately clear that the Galra were going to be culling those with fair hair—a category Sam Holt fell into as his strawberry blonde had continued to grey over the years.

There was no time to react as the officer approached the group of humans. Curiously, though, he did not just pull Sam from their ranks. Rather, he motioned to his underlings to take all three of the humans.

Surprised, but glad they would remain together for at least a bit longer, Matt followed without hesitation, his grip on Shiro’s hand necessitating the older male follow him.

As the three wandered into the bleached white corridor, Matt tried to puzzle together why he and Shiro had been pulled out with the group. It wasn’t an examination of the group, but rather a closer look at Shiro, that had Matt panicking.

“Ohshit, ohshit, ohshit,” he whispered, as the hand not gripping Shiro’s reached up to sweep aside his heavy bangs, grown long—almost back to the length during their band days—during captivity.

Shiro’s eyes squinted as he could reply only with a simple, “what?”

“Your _hair_.”

And it was the despair and agony that filled Matt’s voice that made Sam, Shiro, and the rest of the chosen prisoners pause. The Galra soldiers were choosing the remaining few, unaware of the drama unfolding in the hallway.

As Shiro’s unburdened hand raised to grip his fringe, grown shaggy with their time in captivity, he noticed that Matt held back a sob.

“What? What’s wrong? Matt, what the hell? My hair is _black_ ; why are you freaking out?”

“It’s not,” Matt whispered, as tears escaped his ducts. “Not all of it, anyway. Not anymore.”

Still refusing to unclasp their hands, Matt reached out to continue the attack on Shiro’s forehead. Every move forward resulted in a small twinge of pain for Shiro. It took him a moment to realize…Matt was pulling hairs from his head.

“There are so many strands; how did we miss them? How did I not notice?” A small pile of white hairs was growing in Matt’s palm. “Holy shit, Shiro, they’re gonna _take_ you...”

Another pair of hands finally reached out—one knocking down the collection of hair, the other stilling Matt’s plucking—as Sam Holt tried to calm his panicking son. “Matt, stop. If they were cataloguing attributes like we assumed, Shiro is fine. His hair is nowhere near that of those chosen.”

As Matt accepted the awkward hand holding—his clasped between his father’s and his lover’s—he turned to look at the others selected. His father was right; none of the aliens had the salt-and-pepper that Shiro possessed; theirs was uniformly pale. His sense of relief was immediately inundated with guilt. Not selecting Shiro meant that these others would face some grave danger, and how quickly had Matt ignored that his father might be among those?

That guilt mixed with panic once more as his gaze returned to Shiro, honing in on the white strands that seemed to be growing, elongating, before his very eyes.

“When the fuck did you decide to become an old man?” Matt tried to tease, his eyes filling with tears.

Shiro, recognizing Matt’s panic, offered a brief chuckle in response. “I’m pretty sure it was around October of my sophomore year, when the college decided to throw me a freshman roommate out of nowhere, unaware that he was the hottest man I’d ever met.”

Wiping not-yet-fallen tears from his eyes, Matt gave a small laugh in return. This, he could handle. Shiro, bad at flirting, but still getting Matt right where he wanted him. There was little effort involved, and it prevented Matt from having to face his father, aware of which of the two men he loved was more likely to be taken away.

Sam, ever the parochial figure, offered a small grin of his own, reaching out to where his son’s hand had dropped, plucking out hairs that gleamed more obviously in the harsh lighting.

The small jolts of pain shook Shiro back to the disastrous situation. “Professor Holt…”

“I swear to God, Takashi Shirogane, if the last time we talk involves you addressing me so formally, I’m going to haunt your ass all the way back to Earth.”

“Yessir.”

Shiro’s sniff was nearly matched by Matt’s as the two young men stared at the man both considered a father figure, the man who was doing the very thing he had just chastised his son about.

“Yep, Dad, cool,….okay,” Matt trailed with another laugh. “I don’t know what to say, but I want Shiro to be in trouble, too.”

The childish response broke the tension, and all three men laughed as the Galra soldiers brought out the last selected prisoners.

The march was long and quiet, and Matt hadn’t even realized they had technically marched right off the ship until the roar of an unseen crowd grew louder.

The men, along with their alien counterparts, were called to a halt right before a large metal door. The Galra officer turned, staring at the prisoners as the door raised behind him. The incoming light made the male that much more intimidating as shadows fell across the earthlings and others. The officer’s face immediately drew close to Sam’s, his face leaning to the left, then the right, before asking one of the soldiers for additional details.

Matt’s heart was racing as he prevented himself from reaching out for his father’s hand. Such a display of ownership would only exacerbate the Galra, guaranteeing that his father wouldn’t survive the day.

 _This is BULLSHIT_ , his mind shouted as his voice held back. _There are so many others to choose from! Don’t take my fucking DAD._

His nose wrinkled in anger as his eyes drew across the others selected. Knowing that to be selected was to be deemed as good as dead, Matt still couldn’t find it in himself to feel guilty about wishing one of the aliens were chosen. His angry glaring landed on the group of prisoners that had come out last, the ones chosen while Matt was freaking out about Shiro going prematurely grey. They…didn’t have light hair. They didn’t have hair _at all_ , actually.

But all four of them had been pulled forward by the Galra soliders.

And they _did_ have small red spots all over their yellow bodies.

In an instant, everything clicked into place as Matt saw the four led to the open door. His eyes were able to focus on the similarly-yellow bodies in the audience before his perspective was forced to shift to the giant commanding officer who had just stepped in front of him.

“Oh.” 

 

* * *

 

 

When Matt came to, his head was throbbing, his leg was wrapped in a splint, and only his father watched over him.

Sitting up in a rush, the only thing he could do was shout, “That…fucking _ASSHOLE_!” before the tears began to stream down his face. Sam wrapped his arms around his son’s body, the action smothering some of the noise of the violent sobs that began to erupt from Matt.

The sobs didn’t stop for a few days, and the kindness he was shown by alien strangers during that time allowed Matt to finally feel the guilt he had been unable to sense while in the area tunnels. This wasn’t their fault. It was the Galra, plain and simple, and they deserved all of Matt’s rage.

That rage resulted in Matt being held in solitary confinement for weeks at a time, as he’d taken to rushing the guards every time they entered the cell. That assault stopped, however, after his third failed attempt. It wasn’t the failure that stopped him, but rather the invasive thought that came to him one night, alone in his tiny cell, that he might return to discover his father had disappeared, too.

Being returned to the main cell after several nights with that torturous thought, Matt was so overwhelmed with relief to see his father that he failed to notice the new arrivals.

After having the pair of red-spotted, yellow aliens pointed out to him, Matt rushed over, still limping slightly, to catch up with the news that the others had learned days before.

 _Shiro had…_ won? _Of course he did, what kind of shitty boyfriend are you?_

Matt couldn’t hold back his schoolgirl giggles of glee as his hands lifted to his mouth in an attempt to keep them in. The others in the cell had obviously been waiting to see his reaction, and the joy spread as everyone joined in the chatter, gossiping about the play-by-play they’d heard multiple times already.

It was the mention of Shiro’s new nickname, however, that sparked the sing-along.

 _The Champion_ , they were calling him.

And as Matt turned to his fellow prisoners, he noticed the smiles on those with distinguishable mouths, guessing they’d been waiting for this moment, waiting for him to understand the cosmic _rightness_ of it all.

What else could he do?

There was no complaint of his voice being weaker than Shiro’s; everyone was too wrapped up in the hope of the moment, too excited for the small moment of joy that wasn’t stolen from them, after all.

_I’ve paid my dues_

_Time after time_

_I’ve done my sentence_

_But committed no crime_

_And bad mistakes_

_I’ve made a few_

Matt gave a slight pauses at that line, knowing he couldn’t rush into self-destruction anymore.

New plan: save his boyfriend from a vicious race of space aliens, then teach some of these prisoners about pitch, dear _god._

**Author's Note:**

> Now please go listen to "We Are the Champions," and imagine Matt and Sam singing it with a cast of alien prisoners. Because I'm sure as heck not gonna write it.


End file.
